


If The Morning Light Sets In

by meteornight



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambition: Nemesis (Fallen London), Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Neurodiversity, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Original Character-centric, Other, Partial Nudity, Tragedy: Death of a Daughter, because Drownies, just canon-typical blackmailing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28640835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meteornight/pseuds/meteornight
Summary: You agree to return to the Surface, one day. Your beloved turnsand does not look back, but for a moment looks back. Your dreams that night are of summer. It is in winter that you see her next.Scathewick, dealt with. The case, (nearly) solved. Vengeance, impossible. It is time for a promise to be fulfilled. Idris Aperture must decide where they belong: In a sunless world of madness and revenge, or in the light by which their own madness is revealed.
Relationships: Original Female Character(s)/Original Non-Binary Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	1. Mourning's End

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song "Go Get Your Gun" by The Dear Hunter. Description modified from the game text for Surface Ties: The Admirer.

The crew of the _Mourning’s End_ cast off and left the Iron Republic behind. The captain did not dare speak until Hell’s colony faded from their sight. It was not fear of what lay behind them that kept them silent. No, they had conquered that, left it sniveling it its wretched cell, never to be seen again. It was what lay ahead that sat heavy on their chest and left them shaking. They should be braver than this, they thought. They were the one who had danced with Drownies, dueled the Black Ribbon, and had been branded by devils for the brazen audacity they had to rob the Brass Embassy. Who were they to fear this? Captain Idris Aperture knew, but that would not stop them. The crew was gathered and stood at attention, waiting for them to speak. It was time to begin.

“We'll stop at London briefly, then turn back towards The Cumaean Canal. We're heading for the Surface.”

There was an uproar amongst the crew.

“The Surface? Are you mad?!”

“I have a promise to keep,” said the captain simply.

“The Sun can kill a zailor within a day,” said the Tough Tracklayer. “Please, it's not safe.”

“I have only been in the Neath for the greater half of a year. This… This may be my last chance.”

There was a brief moment of confused silence at that. The captain was a well-respected man in the Neath, if one used the term “man” as loosely as possible. It seemed obvious that there was nothing left for them on the Surface: no elegant townhouse, no throngs of admirers, no favors in high places, and no unquestioningly neutral terms of reference. But there was one onboard who was skilled in solving puzzles, and to the boatswain Idris’ purpose was as clear as day.

The Midnighter's Daughter groaned. “ _Ey vây_ , you're going to see _her_.”

“I DO NOT KNOW WHO YOU SPEAK OF,” rumbled the Clay Motorman.

The crew turned to the Clay Man as eager for gossip as high society women. “Arabella!” they cried in chorus.

“They never cease to speak of Arabella.”

“Even in their sleep there's talk of Arabella.”

“The Lady Aperture, the captain's wife.”

“Whose ring they wear on a chain around their neck.”

“Whose portrait rests in their locket!”

The captain put a hand to their chest, indignant. “I do not!” Beneath their shirtwaist, the rumored treasures chimed softly, metal against metal.

The zailors only laughed, jostling one another and exchanging whispered words of jest. It was not out of malice that they teased, but their captain was young and an easy target being new to the Neath and even newer to the Zee. When the jokes ran out and Idris’ face was red enough to satisfy the bloodlust of Smiles himself, they unburied their concerns and presented them one by one.

“It’s sweet and all you want to go home, but what about the Sun? What about us?”

“We’re stopping at London to let off the Clay Men,” answered the captain. “We can’t take them that far from Polythreme without consequence.”

The boatswain shook her head. “Even if we are to stay near Naples, we do not wish to risk death for your dalliances. You pay well, five times the rate of any other captain, and we appreciate that. But if you value your crew, we stop at London and go no further.”

“You’re right,” said Idris. “You’ve all been in the Neath longer than I, some of you for your entire lives. You can’t be as careless as I, and I cannot be careless with you.”

One of the men shrugged. “If you paid double I’d go.”

He got a slap on the shoulder from his crewmate. “Oi, we’re getting good terms as it is.”

“You can get new work at Wolfstack. I’ll put in a good word for you. When I return, I’ll send notice ahead so that if you’d like you can come on the _Mourning’s_ next voyage. Does that sound fair to you all?”

There was a unanimous assent. They shook on it and the crewmen dispersed, save for two. They were the captain’s companions, two ex-tracklayers which they never managed to shake: The Donahue twins.

Idris sighed. “What do you lot want?”

“Are we not coming with you?” asked Bryan.

“’Cause you can’t go alone,” said Doyle.

“Well, I can’t take you with me,” answered Idris. “You’d die if you saw the Sun again after ten years down here.”

Doyle didn’t seem impressed. “But how are we to know you haven’t gotten killed up there? You know Scathewick is on the Surface. You sent him there just hours ago!”

“Fine,” the captain snapped. “I’ll bring the Sedulous Cryptanalyst along. We all know that liar has seen the Sun for months at a time.”

For a moment, they seemed to be in agreement. But a ship is not an easy place to hold a private conversation, not on the waveless, echoing Zee. If anyone had a second opinion, it would be heard.

“Ey!” called the boatswain. “You’re not bringing him. He’s bad news.”

“Eavesdropping again?” No one was surprised.

“For good reason. You don’t bring that man aboard for the same reason you don’t bring rats along. He’d talk.”

“Well, I have something on him. It’s a gamble, but that’s the Game.”

The boatswain nodded, understanding. She was a Midnighter’s daughter, after all.


	2. Favours

A Majestic Pleasure Yacht steamed across the Unterzee. It carried passengers away from London's winter festivities and back to the Surface, where their strange tales would soon be forgotten. Amongst them stood Idris Aperture, accompanied by one Sedulous Cryptanalyst.

The Cryptanalyst leaned against the rail, fishing idly for clues. “Ah, society favors get you far in life,” he mused. “Is it true that you composed a symphony for the Traitor Empress?”

“That is true,” Idris replied. “What of it?”

“Competition for Imperial Artist-in-Residence must be tough. Was it meant to make the oppositions' ears bleed, or was composing in the Correspondence just an artistic choice?”

“What do you care, typesetter?” They could feel his eyes on them, waiting to snap up the slightest of tells.

“Oh, I don't at all,” he lied. “I don't care at all.”

The musicians were testing their strings. The wealthy and notable mingled, filling out their dance cards. Of all the offers, Citizen Aperture outright rejected only that of the Sedulous Cryptanalyst. It was spiteful, yes, but a three-starred entry in _Slowcake’s Exceptionals_ , offered one the luxury of rude behavior. Their scorn left the Cryptanalyst to sit alone and watch, like the lowly Doubt Street typesetter he claimed to be.

Every dancer was dressed in only the finest of fabrics from the Surface. Not a scrap of Parabola-linen was to be seen despite its lustrous sheen. Everyone knew that where they were going, such riches would turn to dust. Nevertheless, the revelers knew how to flaunt their wealth in other ways. The jewels at Idris’ throat caught the moonish light, sparkling softly. The boutonniere of fresh green carnations upon their lapel would be a simple touch on the Surface, but in the Neath it was a rarity. It was, overall, a decadent display.

When dinner was served, the travelling pair sat side by side. An unspoken truce was called as they dined, and Idris offered introductions on the Cryptanalyst’s behalf. Something in him felt like the gesture was insincere, though he lacked the slightest scrap of proof. Paranoia, he thought, was poisoning his rationality. But in the Great Game there was no way of knowing whose side a person was on and why. In the grand scheme of things, he could never know who was playing whom.

After the final course was served and the plates were cleared, men and women parted ways to mingle and chat over drinks. Idris Aperture, caught in the middle, was left alone. It was not uncommon, even in the Neath, to feel like a stranger. They took a seat at an empty table and looked out at the Zee’s dark waves, watching the false stars glimmer. The Cryptanalyst joined them. Idris did speak when he sat down beside them but saw to it that he was poured a glass. They wished for a moment that it was kindness that moved them, but tonight that was the one luxury they lacked.

“Thank you for accompanying me so far from London,” they said. “We part ways at staging area of The Cumaean Canal. Whether or not you come with me to the Surface is no concern of mine.”

“It's no trouble,” the Sedulous Cryptanalyst assured them.

“Yes, I'm certain you have business in Vienna.”

“Paris, actually.” He sipped his wine, then stopped, realizing that he had slipped. No newspaper typesetter would have business in France.

Idris hummed and motioned for a waiter to refill his glass. "Very well. I'm not going much further than Naples, if all goes to plan.”

“Citizen Aperture, what are you planning?” His voice was low and dangerous.

“Nothing," they said breezily, "Nothing at all.”

“Is this an interrogation or—"

They silenced him with a wave of their gloved hand. “It is a test of character. I have suspected you worked for the Foreign Office for some time, but I wanted to be more certain of where your loyalties lie.”

“You disgust me.”

“We've always had a mutually manipulative relationship. Don't act surprised. You should be used to betrayal by now.” Idris sighed and swirled their glass of Greyfields, a vintage so dark it was nearly black. “You know I am a good man, despite everything. But I have some things I wish to protect. It is my only wish that you understand that it is within my power to ruin you. I want you to act accordingly.”

He nodded meekly. “I understand.”

“Good.” They swallowed their pride and their better self, trying not to think of what they had become. “All that I ask is that you keep the Empire and the Game out of my affairs. I know it is an impossible task for one man, but I want you to try. The Canal is crawling with spies. I do not want you to mingle amongst them.”

“I was not planning to, but I understand why you'd want the insurance. However, there are two things I ask of you in return.”

“What can I do for you?”

The Cryptanalyst laughed softly. They were good man in some ways, even when they threatened him. “I want you to shake on it. The rumor is you are a man of your word. I want you bound by it.”

Idris clasped his hand. “You keep my secrets and I’ll keep yours. You have my word, Stern.”

“Second…” he hummed, “I want you on my dance card for tomorrow night. Please.”

“Hedonist,” they laughed.

“Heartless.”

They shook hands, sealing the deal. It was a gentleman’s game they played, and they played it well. Arm in arm they left, knowing all was fair in the coldest of wars.


	3. The Wind and the Waves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for brief discussion of suicide.  
> Chapter title comes from "The Wind and the Waves" by Helena Ruth

When the twists and turns of the Cumaean Canal gave way to the open air, the sky was deliciously dark. There was scarcely a moon to light the still waters of Lake Avernus, only the distant stars. The night would be long. Winter had settled in. Most passengers slept, saving their strength for when the ship reached the port of Naples. Idris could not rest. They paced and thought and checked their pocket watch.

“Meet me at midnight,” the letter had said.

It was far from the appointed time, only half-past seven, but they worried nonetheless. What would happen if they arrived late? Would their lover even be there? What if something terrible had befallen her? What if the message had been intercepted and some unknown enemy awaited them? They shook their head. They needed some fresh air.

On the ship’s deck, a zailor eyed Idris warily, half-wondering what business they had there. This was not their ship. They had no power here, especially on the Surface. They were nothing but a visitor at best, or at worst, an unwelcome guest.

“May I stand on the deck?” they asked. It had been some time since they had used that tone of voice, meek and uncertain.

The zailor huffed. “Stay out of the way and don't get drunk on the moonlight.”

They nodded and opted to stand by the railing to watch the world go by. Gentle waves lapped against the ship. The shadows of hills dotted with poplars drifted past, illuminated by the lights of quaint little houses. It was quiet. It was still. It was wrong. There were no great monsters lurking below them and no cavern roof arching above them. The world felt unfinished and incomplete, like a book when a censor’s work was done. Looking out at the stars which lay not only above, but ahead, they felt as if the sky would swallow them whole. So they tried to ignore it, staring down at the water below and pretending it was the ink-black Zee, deep and still.

A voice shook them from their reverie.

“Ah, isn’t it I.P. Aperture, the melancholy polymath whose work wrought a dozen Drownies. A thorn in my side, they were.”

Idris winced. It had been some time since they wrote that tragic romance of death by water, but death brings a more permanent sort of scandal. Nevertheless, fame and notoriety had taught them how to tip their hat to any valid form of recognition.

“Regrettably so,” they replied. “And you are?”

“Captain of this vessel,” the woman said. “What brings you to the Surface? It’s no place for an honest zailor.”

“I'm going to visit an old friend.”

“I'm surprised you're not from below. Scandal sticks to you better than some native Londoners.” She gave them a wink that spoke of a hundred rumors.

Idris only shrugged. “It's my mistakes that follow me more than anything.”

“Chin up, lad,” she said. “It doesn't matter much, in the whole of things. Once a person decides to drown, they'll take any excuse to follow through.”

“Is that so?” They knew zailors were well-acquainted with death, but never had they heard what the people thought of it.

“Aye. It ain't your fault. People just die sometimes. If you take it personal, you’ll just be helping the Boatman along.”

The captain wandered off some time after that, although when she did, Idris did not know. They kept their eyes on the water, focusing on the steady thrum of the ship’s motor beneath their feet. The hour was late. The lights of Pozzuoli flickered softly in windows, some to be put out for the night, others to remain. Onwards the ship glided across the gulf, east towards the city of Naples.

For a moment, Idris mistook the city lights for the dawning Sun. Naples was as lively as London at night, even with the luxury of days. The docks were filled with workers, loading and unloading cargo for journeys across the ocean or far below it. Even some of their songs were familiar from snatches heard whilst sparring at the Medusa’s Head. Idris gave the zailors a friendly nod and a purse of rostygold, and soon they had a fair map of Naples’ shore to help them along. After an hour of sleuthing, they found the place they were looking for.

The cheery café was open late to accommodate travelers to and from London. It was nearly empty outside of Hallowmas season, but its stock of Neathy delights kept it open throughout the year. Idris stepped inside and took a quick stock of the customers. A pair of ladies chatted at a table over tea, unarmed. A woman wiped tables down, cutlery close at hand. A boy sat tiredly at the till, tapping idly at a glass case of lukewarm confections. A young woman in black gazed out a window, fingers running over the silver chain of her pocket watch. She sipped a cup of coffee, her nose scrunching up in distaste for it. She placed two sugars into it, to no avail. Idris watched, unable to go any closer or to run away. There was a strange sort of feeling welling up in their chest, not quite fear, but not quite relief. It was the acute knowledge that after all the months they had been in a land of devils and untold mysteries, Arabella looked exactly as they had left her.

A clock tolled. Idris took a seat.

Arabella looked at them. When recognition dawned upon her, she smiled. “You came.”

“I promised.”

“Did you find him?”

Idris closed their eyes. “Yes.” They said no more of that complicated truth.

Arabella embraced them, her soft laughter bordering on sobs. “You ridiculous thing, I thought you had died. I thought you would die down there and I’d never ever see you again!”

“Well, I’m here now.”

She smacked them on the shoulder but caught only their sleeve. “Well, if you’re here, help me finish this awful drink.”

Idris finished off the coffee. It did little for them, as the Neath’s fare was far, far stronger.

Arabella fidgeted with the lace of her sleeve, uncertain. “Are you coming home?” she finally asked.

“I thought you’d ask that.”

“But are you?”

“I want to.”

“You said in your letter that you would.”

“Things have changed. I…” They sighed and took their wife’s hand. “I will stay for a month. I owe you that much. When we get home, I will tell you my reasons. I will only tell you when I know no one else can hear.”

She stood. “Let’s set off, then.”

The couple walked to the station in silence. Arabella did not link her arm in her lover’s that night. Instead, she watched Idris as one would watch a familiar stranger, struggling to make sense of every detail. Even under the moon's gentle light, Idris carried a parasol. Their skin was pale as milk, drained of the glow she once knew. For a moment, she wondered if it was a devil's eyes which hid behind those spectacles of smoked glass, the ones they had yet to remove. But the truth could not be avoided with such fantasies. Her lover had become a Neathy thing, sun-shy and fragile.

The journey would take four days at most. The travel from Naples to Milan could be done by night. From there to Lyon took them through the treacherous daylight, when Idris closed the curtains tight. Arabella slept most of that day, still recovering from the nonstop travel she had endured to reach their place of meeting. Idris wondered if she had gone all that way alone and if so, why. Their wife had always been somewhat eccentric, but never irrational. Whatever she did, she did with reason.

When they switched trains in Paris, Arabella chose their seats with care.

“Do you have anywhere without windows?” she asked the porter. “Or at least curtained? My friend has a condition, you see.”

When they were settled and alone, Idris let themself laugh. “If you were anyone else, I'd think you were trying to kidnap me. I doubt I've seen a glimpse of where we are going since we left Lyon.”

“I'm trying to take care of you,” Arabella snapped. “I've heard so many horrid tales of people falling dead upon returning to the Surface.”

“Most of them had never seen the Sun.”

“But not all. The Neath, it changes people.”

Idris held her hand. They knew how her temper ran short when she was anxious, so they rubbed small circles into her palm until her shaking stilled. The rhythm of the train lulled her, and she fell asleep on their shoulder. Idris remained awake. They had practice in the art of not sleeping, whether that was from night watches for the Great Game or nightmares from all they’d seen. They were afraid, they knew, of what they’d dream if anything at all. Dreams in the Neath were solid things, full of real dangers and real meanings. Like mirrors. Like doorways. What would it be like, they wondered, to dream of nothing at all? And if they did dream, would they be able to shake the feeling that it was a dark premonition?

The train had once gone to London, but London was no more. The train line had been re-laid decades ago, turned to circumvent the wound in the earth where London once was. It ambled merrily from Rochester to Croydon, then on towards their home of Southampton. But it was beside the scar where London once sat that it stopped, brought to a halt by a commotion outside. People stood upon the tracks, holding signs and shouting as the constables and railway staff tried in vain to shoo them aside.

Carefully, Idris lowered their veil and left the cabin to peer outside the railway car. They were greeted by chaos. The common people seemed to be trying to take London's Scar for their own, to till the land. It wasn’t particularly _good_ land, considering that London once sat upon it, but it was vast, empty, and free for the taking. That was, of course, if the Traitor Empress would let anyone have it. But if the nobility laid claim to their estates through wars of old, the revolutionaries were willing to fight just the same. They were well-armed with rifles and other, cruder weapons, but no one had yet to fire a shot. The tension, however, was rising.

Arabella took Idris by the arm. “Come on, we need to go.” Her voice could hardly be heard above the shouts.

“Unity or death. No lords! No Masters!” the people cried. “Liberation! Liberation from all tyrants! For the Liberation of the Night!”

Idris shuddered at the familiar phrase. “Yes, we need to go.”


	4. Covered Mirrors

They arrived in Southampton just past noon. Arabella Aperture instructed the servants shutter the windows and draw the curtains. They obliged, fussing to and fro to ready the house for their master’s arrival. Despite her spouse's protests, nothing more than the faintest sliver of light would be allowed in. When all the luggage was brought in and things settled down, Arabella set off to find Idris within the townhouse’s maze of once-airy rooms. She found them in the front parlor, reclining in an overstuffed chair. They toyed with the sunlight caught in the crystal chandelier, running a hand through the refracted rays.

“People would pay a fortune for this,” Idris said softly. “Sunlight, just a shadow of it. It's so beautiful.”

Arabella pulled the curtains closed more tightly. “They say the Sun can drive one mad.”

“So can the darkness,” Idris said with a nonchalant shrug.

She looked at them for a long moment, as if she could understand them if only she combed through each detail. It worked sometimes, she knew, using deduction to solve such so-called simple things. Idris had taken their spectacles off. Their eyes seemed tired, dark-rimmed and just barely bloodshot. Their posture was skewed, as if they could not manage to sit upright. Were they tired, perhaps? Ill? No, not quite. Something about them seemed… haunted.

“Are you puzzling again?” Idris asked.

“Pardon?” With some difficulty, she brought herself back to the broader strokes of the present.

“You’re thinking too hard about something.”

“Not everything I do is one of my strange quirks.” They had named them all together when they were young—puzzling, chattering, fidgeting—all those sensations too esoteric to explain.

“Not everything,” Idris conceded. “But most of them are, because they are you.”

“And you as well.” It had always been the two of them, strangers in a strange land. That was the way it was, at least before.

They stood. “I brought gifts for you. Perhaps that will take your mind off things.”

From their steamer trunk, Idris retrieved three boxes of varying sizes, each wrapped in scraps of silk. Arabella took them one by one. The first contained strings of moon pearls, their smooth, dark surfaces winking with the waxing crescent far above. The second was filled with delicate trinkets of carved glim, the jewels of the Unterzee. A sea monster with eyes of venom-rubies. A mermaid crowned in sapphires. Three swans in varying poses. A clipper ship held aloft by dark waves. The small treasures glistened in the gaslight like a thousand beetle wings. The last box contained a bird shaped from nevercold brass silver, the metal of Hell. Its emerald eyes were bright and staring.

“If you wind it up, it sings,” Idris offered.

“Why are you giving me all of this?”

“To make up for things, I suppose. Your parents were quite certain I’d be a worthless match, and the fortune I’ve made is in fact worthless up here. But these should sell well, and I can have even more shipped to the Surface. I could see to it you are well taken care of.”

“You make it sound as if I’ll never see you again. Why? Why won't you stay?”

“Because it goes deeper.”

“And if you follow, you will be buried with it. Idris, I want you alive.”

“I know, I know.”

“So why don’t you act like it!” she snapped.

Idris looked away. “May we be alone?” they asked.

The lingering servants nodded and left the room. Idris shut the doors behind them and began to move with a singular purpose. They closed the boxes of treasures and locked the trunk tight. They circled the room once, eyes searching every surface, until they stopped before a mirror hanging over the fireplace. They turned, cleared off a table, then snatched the brocade tablecloth from it to cover the looking glass.

“Idris, what are you doing?”

“Closing the doors,” they replied.

“You’re not making sense!”

“You asked why I would not stay. I told you I would explain when I was certain no one else could hear. Now we are alone.”

“And are you content, with even the mirror covered?”

They looked briefly towards the chandelier. “It will have to do. I can’t quite remove _every_ reflective surface from this room.”

Arabella began to pace. “When you say it goes deeper, do you mean that Scathewick wasn’t the end of it?”

“Yes, he was a hired hand. He had no motive of his own aside for the money.”

“Then who killed our daughter?” Arabella asked. “Idris, be plain with me now, who killed her?”

“It was the Masters, to feed the Bazaar’s strange hungers,” they answered. “And I haven’t the faintest clue how to make them pay, but I will.”

Arabella stopped. There were a hundred things she wanted to say and a thousand things she could. She could say they were mad. She wanted to believe they were, at times. She could say that they’ve changed, for they had never been so hungry for vengeance. But she had felt the same way, when she let them go. She could say that they had lied to her, that they swore they would stop upon finding the reason why. But she had broken a promise as well. She could say that she didn’t care anymore, that she was tired of all this madness, of all the darkness and mirrors and fear. That was the heart of the matter. Or she could say nothing at all.

“If you can stay a month, stay a year,” she said in the end. “If they really are the rulers of that land, they won't be going anywhere.”

“You can say it's an impossible task. I'd believe you.”

“If you already know why—”

“I don't know for certain, Arabella. I don't know why _me_. I don't know why _her_. I don't know!”

“Must you? Must you know it all?”

They said nothing, only hung their head in shame.

“Mourning's almost over. Don't you want to move on?”

“Seven years. Seven years we raised that girl as our own and you think I can move on!” Tears brimmed and threatened to fall. They wiped them away with a clenched fist.

“I know. I loved her too. But she's not coming back, my darling. Whatever you're chasing, it's not her.”

“I just want to see her again,” Idris sobbed. “So often in dreams she haunts me. I just want her back! I want everything back…”

“They say the Neath holds the secret to immortality. But I doubt there is a way in all its depths to raise the dead without a cruel price. All we can do is live our lives and hope one day our souls join hers in Heaven.”

“A soul is something that can fit in a bottle. They sell them at the Bazaar for four pence each.”

“And we are not near the Bazaar. Come closer, my love. You can cry on my shoulder if you'd like.”

“I'd ruin your gown.”

“Then come to bed instead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I double-checked how Victorian parlors worked and agonized over light fixtures for this. You're welcome. Next chapter, I work harder than Failbetter Games on my clothing research.


	5. Et in Arcadia ego

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wary of that "partial nudity" tag, it applies to this chapter.

There were no ladies’ maids to assist in the dressing room, not that night. This was a private affair. The servantry needed not see their master weep, though the sound had surely been heard echoing through the halls. Arabella dried her spouse’s tears with a handkerchief, until they turned their face aside.

“This is pointless,” Idris sighed. “We’ll be here all night.”

“Do you want to get ready for bed, then?”

“Yes, let’s.”

Arabella motioned for them to stand. “Well come on. You’re still in your traveling clothes.”

Idris hesitated, then held out a hand. “Allow me.”

They both knew she needed no assistance getting out of a tea gown, but Arabella accepted the offer. Idris’ hands shook like those of a bachelor on his wedding day. They had done this before, many times. Yet it had been so long that they feared that if they touched her so, she would vanish beneath their fingertips. They undid the hooks and eyes which curved along her side, from the pleated front down to the ribboned waist. With that task complete, Idris unpinned their wife’s hair, setting the hairpieces aside. They combed through it with their fingers and worked it into a braid, relishing the repetition.

Arabella hummed a Surface lullaby as they went, whispered words slipping out only rarely. “Find the Pale Horse in the stable, hide the cats beneath the gable…” she sang. “Swordsman in the forest green, his face the one you’ve always seen…”

Her hair fell over her chemise, as dark as the Zee. For a moment, Idris thought it could have been any other night long gone. The world was quiet and still, the gaslight warm. Then Arabella reached out a hand towards their chest, and they flinched.

“I’m sorry,” they said. “I have scars of so many kinds.”

“Let me see.”

Idris removed their waistcoat and unfastened the cuffs of their sleeves. Upon their left forearm was the mark of the Eater of Chains. It was a ragged scar, dull red and uneven, opened many times from the mere memory of the savage jaws that made it. Arabella ghosted her fingertips across it, tracing its outline but never truly touching.

“A hound of Hell bit me there,” Idris explained. “On the shores of the Stolen River in a dream.”

Idris reached back and unfastened the collar of their shirt, then moved on to the hooks and eyes on the side. Arabella watched. She felt as if she should help, for they had been together for years. Yet she could hardly recognize person before her at times.

“May I unlace you?” she asked.

Idris nodded. Arabella stepped behind them and loosened the laces of their corset. From the front, Idris unfastened the busk. They sighed. It felt blissful, being able to bend and stretch after a long day. But the relief was only temporary.

“There’s another on my chest,” they said. “Be careful not to look at this one. It can make one's eyes bleed to read the letters of Hell.”

Arabella wanted to believe that Idris had lost their mind. It would make everything so much simpler, so much easier to believe. But there was only one way to find out. She watched them shrug off the lace straps of their combinations and let the cotton pool around their waist. Gently, Idris took her hand and traced her fingers across the lines of smooth scar tissue between their breasts. It felt oddly warm, tingly, then slowly began to ache like dying coals. The arcs and lines of it felt strangely deliberate, thick and thin, some angles sharp and others swirling.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“It means ‘thief’. To be more exact, it means ‘the sensation of having carried out a painstaking task for no particular reason’, which is a ward against future thefts. I tried to steal souls from the Brass Embassy, but I failed. The devils branded me for it.” They shifted her hand up their sternum and began to outline another letter. “And this means ‘hurtling forever towards the earth’, like Icarus, brash and brazen.” They grimaced. “I tried it twice.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No. And that’s what frightened me the most.”

Idris slipped into their nightgown after that, speaking no more. No other explanations would be offered freely that night. The couple climbed into bed and felt as slowly, haltingly, their bodies recalled how to fit together. In the dark, Arabella could feel warm wet tears soak into her chest. Idris was still weeping, softly but not quite silently. They had been for some time. As long minutes passed, the desperation eased from their breaths and they seemed to calm. At long last, they fell asleep in her arms.

It was an ungodly shriek which woke Arabella in the dead of night. Her pounding heart was fit to break from her chest. She knew that voice, that sound from her nightmares. But the body in the bed this time was warm and real, so she turned to it, still afraid of what she might see. She was right to be. Her lover's eyes were wild and staring, yet utterly vacant. Idris clung to her arms as if drowning, their skin slick with sweat.

“What’s wrong?” was all she could whisper.

Wild words spilled from their mouth. “The artists must be kept in their cages,” they told her. “To dream true the gilded turrets and walls of rose palaces upon distant shores.”

“It’s okay,” she hushed. “I’m here.”

They didn’t seem to hear her. “Sweet as honey, red as blood, his skull dashed upon the fountain—"

“Please, please be _quiet_ ,” she begged.

“—By my own hand, they are coming, they are coming, _they are coming_.”

She hushed them until her voice abandoned her and she too was wild with worry, singing, singing, singing without meaning and holding her lover in her arms. They lay there in waking nightmare until the shrieking, the song, and the endless weeping that followed put them both to sleep once more.

Daybreak crept up behind them, bringing fragments of faint sunlight into the room. They were clinging to one another, twined fast together. Idris woke and stirred, blinking in the light. Arabella kissed them. She said nothing, only pulled their hand to her chest with tenderness and overwhelming relief. They were still alive. No matter how wretchedly mad, no matter how broken, they were still alive. That was enough for her. That was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering the fact that I am the intended audience for this fic and I am not quite satisfied, there might be more of it in the future. But that's pretty unlikely. Thanks for hanging around!


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